


Five Reasons

by apple_pi



Series: Everybody Gets... -verse [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fluff, Hobbits, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2009-11-16
Updated: 2009-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-03 03:33:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apple_pi/pseuds/apple_pi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merry dithers; Pippin provides some sage advice. (Prequel to the "Everybody Gets..." -verse.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sam Gets an Glimpse

"I just don't know what to do."

It was Merry's voice, floating out the kitchen window, and Pippin stopped where he was on the garden path. There was a note he'd never heard before in that voice, as familiar to Pippin as his own. What was he talking about? Merry sounded... sad, and frustrated.

Pippin knew he shouldn't eavesdrop, but he dropped to all fours and crept forward anyway, until he was crouched just below the window. _I never was very good at resisting temptation_, he thought.

"Oh, Merry, it'll get better. Things will change. Just give it time." Frodo, amused. Sympathetic. _What_ should Merry be giving time?

"I just don't know," Merry repeated.

"I know one thing that might at least... take your mind off things." Pippin's ears twitched. That was the voice of a flirting hobbit. Was _Frodo_ flirting with _Merry_? (_MY Merry?_ Pippin thought, then wondered what in the world had prompted such an odd thought.)

There was a silence, and Pippin wondered what was going on.

"What about Sam, Frodo?" Merry's voice again, slightly lower than usual. _Yes, what _about _Sam?_ Pippin wondered.

"Sam is down the Hill at the Cotton's, and he wouldn't mind if he were here. And Pippin's gone for a walk, and _you_ need distracting."

"Well." Another long pause, and Pippin quivered with the need to know what exactly was happening in the kitchen in the absence of himself and Sam. "You _are_ very good at distracting me."

"Mmm. Yes, I am."

Pippin could no longer bear it; he glanced over his shoulder - garden all clear - and then pulled himself up, inch by inch, until his forehead and eyes cleared the sill. What he saw stopped his heart. And dried his mouth and heated his ears, too.

Merry was leaning back against the counter on the far side of the room, with Frodo pressed against him. Frodo was _kissing_ Merry. And Merry was kissing him _back_.

Pippin's eyes went wide, but he didn't make a sound - he was far too experienced an eavesdropper for that little mistake. No, he would not give himself away. He would just - well, he would just stay here, and he would see what happened. That's what he would do.

What happened was that Frodo and Merry went on kissing for a long time. Frodo ran his hands down Merry's back, and Merry had his own fingers tangled deep in Frodo's black curls, and Pippin's mouth opened unconsciously; he licked his lips as he watched.

He had never known Merry liked lads at all. Pippin knew Frodo liked lads - liked Sam, at least, mostly and always. Pippin had never seen them so much as kiss, but the magnetism between master and servant at Bag End was blindingly obvious, even to him. But _Merry_ \- ? And with _Frodo_ \- ?

Pippin was distracted from his own thoughts by a sudden turn of events in the kitchen. Frodo was unbuttoning Merry's shirt, quickly, and then kissing his way down Merry's smooth brown chest until he knelt before him. Merry leaned his head back against a cabinet and slid his braces down so they dangled, loose, beside him.

Would Frodo - ? And would Merry let him - ? Apparently _so_. And in fact Merry would help - fingers tearing at his trouser buttons, he gasped when Frodo finally wrenched the waistband open and yanked Merry's trousers down to knee-level, freeing Merry from his (obviously) too-confining garments.

Pippin nearly gasped, too. He didn't think they would have heard him. Frodo said "Mmmmm," so low and sweet and Merry cried out "Oh_ yes_," so high and tight as Frodo slid his mouth down over the whole length of that hard, silky flesh: It seemed highly unlikely, upon reflection, that either one of them would have noticed had Pippin burst into song.

Pippin was not tempted to burst into song just then, but he felt he might burst into flame or out of his trousers at any moment, so tight was the seam across his groin. His knuckles were white on the windowsill as he watched, his nose pressed to the wood so hard it left a line across the freckled bridge.

Frodo was gentle at first, sliding Merry in and out of his mouth until skin gleamed wet, then running his tongue along the shaft and kissing delicately. Gradually this changed, though, and he sucked Merry almost roughly, teeth visible sometimes, scraping lightly up and down, one hand grasping Merry's sac tightly, almost twisting. With his other hand, Frodo fumbled with his trouser buttons until he could hold his own erection firmly; that hand began moving up and down in time with his mouth upon Merry.

Pippin had never really thought seriously of lads in this way - certainly not these lads - and he didn't know whether he was terrified, horrified, taken aback, or something else entirely. It was difficult to think at all, but it was obvious to Pippin that whatever his _feelings_ might be, his _body_ was clearly in favor of the whole thing. The sight of Frodo's head bobbing swiftly up and down on Merry - the muscles of Merry's flanks tightening and releasing as he thrust slightly into Frodo's mouth - the line of Merry's upturned throat and the flexing of his fingers in Frodo's hair - Frodo's hand, maintaining its own rhythm - it all combined in a way that made Pippin's hair want to stand on end, in imitation of certain other of his bits. He was not aware of his quick breathing, or of the fact that his body was trembling, or of Sam, who had returned from the Cotton's and come round to the back of the smial, headed for the mudroom door.

Sam could hear as well as Pippin could, and had known what was happening in the kitchen immediately, especially when he heard Merry's loud, "Oh_ Frodo_ \- oh - yesmorealmostthere!" and Frodo's mumbled enccouragement in reply. Sam bit his lip to keep from smiling, and turned silently and slipped away toward the front, pursued by the vigorous sounds of Merry's climax. He didn't need to look again to know that Pippin's body had stiffened to rigidity before the tweenager sank down below the windowsill and curled around himself in an agony of unfulfilled desire. Frodo's peak followed Merry's swiftly, and then there were only the soft murmurs of satiation.

As for Pippin, huddled in upon himself in the flowerbed - and never mind that Sam would murder him if he saw him there, squashing the irises - all Pippin could think was that he needed to go off somewhere private and think.

Well, all right, he needed to go off somewhere private and relieve this aching hardness. _Then_ he would think about what he'd just seen - then he would be _able_ to think. _Merry_ \- ? And _Frodo_ \- ?

"Oiiii," he groaned, very softly, and then he crawled away. Merry. And Frodo. And when Pippin found a private place (the gardening shed, as it happened), it was Merry's urgent cries, Merry's angular hips and muscular arms that Pippin thought of. Merry's teeth, biting into his lower lip, and his face, scrunched up with pleasure. _Merry_. Then Pippin came, and there was nothing but the soft explosion of that for a moment or three.

Afterward, he did not feel as good as he thought he should. He felt, in fact, irritable, and he had a lot of questions he wanted answered. Like, _Since when does Merry like lads?_ And, _How long have he and Frodo been more than friends?_ And, _Why has Merry never told me about Frodo, or lads at all?_ And mostly, and most pressingly -

_Why hasn't Merry ever kissed_ me _that way?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Merry dithers and Pippin provides unexpectedly useful advice. (Prequel to the "Everybody Gets..." -verse.)

When Meriadoc Brandybuck was quite a bit younger (in his teens, in fact), he had a tutor named Master Walfred Whitfoot (the Mayor's third cousin once removed on his father's side) who was in love with logic. Master Whitfoot came all the way from the West Farthing to teach the son of the Master (and a few cousins as well). He taught Merry that all decisions could be made to best effect with a simple technique. On a scrap of parchment, draw a line right down the middle. Across the top, write the decision to be made: Should one buy a particular parcel of land? Should one hire a certain hobbit to manage the barns? Or, in one memorable retroactive lesson, should one climb onto the barn roof and lob tomatoes onto the heads of those young hobbits who had annoyed one? On one side of the line, list all the reasons one should _not_ choose to do something, and on the other side of the line, list all the reasons one _should_ choose to take the same course of action.

Master Whitfoot is long gone from the Buckland and back to his home ("where people aren't so blessed odd," as he remarked to his sister once back among the familiar comforts of Michel Delving), and retired from tutoring. But his former student retained that bit of teaching, along with a quick head for accounts and a fine sense of economic realities, and on this ugly winter day, Merry is applying the "Five Reasons Not To" theory to his younger cousin, Peregrin Took.

They are sitting comfortably in the third study, which Merry adopted for his own long before Master Whitfoot ever came along, and they are playing chess. That is to say, Merry is playing chess and thinking, and Pippin is playing chess, tapping his fingers, fidgeting his feet, sighing, wriggling, and otherwise showing signs that he has been cooped up indoors for too long. He is also (occasionally) reading a book, and clearly unconscious of his inability to sit still.

_What Shall I Do With Peregrin?_ These words go across the top of an imaginary paper. On the left side is written this subhead: _Five Reasons I Should_ Not _Kiss Pippin Until Neither of Us Can Breathe Anymore_.

_Reason One_, thinks Merry, seeing the words appear on the left side of the paper. (He is waiting for Pippin to take a turn; Pippin is studying the board, his book abandoned for the moment.) _Pippin is too young_. This is, of course, patently ridiculous. Pippin is not too young, by any measure or standard, and certainly Pippin's own reaction to this specious argument (if he knew of it, which he never will, Merry devoutly hopes) would be to stick his tongue out and blow a large, wet raspberry at the person silly enough to assert any such thing. Not a particularly adult reaction, but certainly a true Took reaction. Pippin is, after all, 22 years old. He has been smoking a pipe for three years now, and flirting with the lasses for two, and the Valar only know when he first sampled ale, though it was Merry who first got him solidly tiddly, at the tender age of 19 (the same night he took up pipeweed, actually).

"Your turn," says Pippin, having ventured a pawn into dangerous territory. He is a reckless player, but Merry is over-cautious, and they are well matched. Pippin picks up his book and rolls onto his back on the couch, drumming his heels idly on the arm-rest (his Aunt Esme would beat him to death with a soup ladle if she saw him); he lays the book over his face.

"What are you _thinking?_" says Merry, looking at the chess pieces.

Pippin is smiling beneath his book, Merry can hear it. "Oh, you'll see. It'll be too late, but you'll see." Merry snorts and stares at the board, though his thoughts are miles away.

_Reason Two. Pippin will not be my best friend anymore._ Of course, this is not true, either. No matter what, Pippin will always be Merry's best friend, his constant companion and partner in crime. It is true that, should Merry tackle him and pin him down to that old, frumpy sofa and kiss him so hard his lips are swollen and bruised, things might be odd for a while, or even strained. But they simply cannot do without one another, and no estrangement could long test their bond.

Merry sighs, and runs his hands through his hair, and moves a few pieces here and there experimentally, finally settling for a conservative move of his rook. "Your turn."

Pippin removes the book from his face and turns sideways, squirming about until his legs and feet hang over the back of the sofa, regarding the table upside-down, his head lolling off the cushions so he is at eye-level with the board.

_Reason Three. Pippin will be horrified._ Well, that is the crux of it, really. Pippin might well be horrified - he likes lasses, and he knows Merry likes lasses, and the idea has probably never crossed his mind that Merry might, might - well, might like lads, too. At least some lads. At least this one. Well, being honest with himself, there was Frodo, those few times a few years ago, and that one other lad, last summer in the South Farthing. But always Pippin, Merry thinks miserably. Always the sparkling eyes, and mischievous mouth, the quick hands and neat feet, and none of this is helped by the fact that Pippin has no more modesty than a cat. Merry is intimately and uncomfortably aware of how his younger cousin looks without a stitch of clothing.

Right now Pippin reaches carefully over his head (he is still upside-down) and moves his knight, claiming Merry's rook. "Your turn," he sings out, folding his arms across his chest and gazing at Merry. His head hangs off the couch, and Merry blushes red, realizing he is staring like a half-wit at the curve of Pippin's throat and the winter-pale skin that disappears into his shirt.

"You are rotten," he says half-heartedly, and cups his chin in his hand. _Look at the game, look at the game_, he chants to himself. Not at Pippin, for heaven's sake.

_Reason Four_. Pippin is still watching him, and Merry finds it slightly unnerving. He forces himself to look only at the chess pieces, and sees that if Pippin moves like this, this, and this, he will have Merry checked. Just as he reaches to place his queen out of danger, Pippin begins to whistle.

"Oi, Pip, stop that," says Merry crossly. "Now I've lost my chain of thought." _Reason Four._ What was Reason Four again? Oh yes. _What if Pippin likes lads all right, but doesn't like_ me_?_ Well, it is remotely within the realm of the possible.

It isn't really so unusual for a lad to like other lads. It isn't spoken of much, but certainly it happens. There are plenty of lads who only like lasses, and plenty who try both paths (usually settling to marriage with a lass soon enough after they reach adulthood), and there are a few lads who do not like lasses for anything but talking to. Like Frodo. Frodo will never wed, Merry knows -- not for love nor money. Merry isn't sure about Sam. He knows that Sam loves Frodo in the way that trees love the sky, but he has seen Sam burnt by a hot red blush a time or two, and that often when Rosie Cotton happens to be within line of sight. Merry thinks that perhaps Sam might love Rosie as well, but there's no real knowing. _And none of my business, either_, he thinks. Oh yes, the chess. Pippin is twisting his hair into knots out of sheer boredom, so Merry moves. Not his queen. A pawn.

Pippin stares in frank amazement, actually rolling over onto his stomach (Merry crosses his legs uncomfortably) and making a quickly choked noise in his throat. "Are you finished?" Pippin asks. Merry nods. "Really? Are you sure?"

"Yes, Pip, I'm finished, take your turn," he says, irritated. Where was he? Oh, yes. So there is some slight possibility that Pippin might like lads, but not like Merry. Not that way. But what can he do about that possibility? Nothing. That is a whole different scenario, and it can't be faced unless Merry faces this one first, so... On the paper in his head, Merry puts brackets around Reason Four. _Deferred_, he thinks, and sees the note appear there, on the left side of the paper.

Pippin has already moved. "Go on, then," he says. His eyes are gleaming, and Merry realizes that his prior move was incredibly stupid.

"Oh, bloody hell," he mutters. "How many moves till checkmate?"

Pippin sits up. "You mean until I checkmate you?" He is smirking. "Two, maybe three if you put up a decent fight. I can't believe you left your queen there, you ninny."

Merry throws a pillow at him. "All right then, I concede the game. Now read your book and let me think."

Pippin sighs. "What else can we do, Mer? I am so. Incredibly. Bored." He is making the big puppy-dog eyes at Merry, who sighs in exasperation.

"Well, I don't know, Pippin." _Oh yes I do_. "We could raid the kitchen in a little while, when they're done cleaning up from luncheon." _We could lie on that couch and kiss until we can't breathe._ "We could go and see what Berilac is up to." _I could run my hands all over your body, and maybe slide them into your trousers and see what _that's _like._ "We could sit here and read quietly and wait for the rain to let up a bit - it should do in a couple of hours - and then ride to _The Golden Perch_ for an ale."_ I could kiss your mouth and your neck and your hands, and see if the nape of your neck tastes as good as it looks._

Pippin thinks about the options. "Very well. I'll read for a while, then we can raid the kitchens, then we can go to _The Golden Perch_. With Berilac."

"Fine. I'm just going to... take a doze. Right here." Merry lies on his couch, stretching out on his side and watching Pippin curl around his book on the opposite sofa. Pippin is very flexible. He lies against the arm of the couch, holding the book propped on the back, one leg also draped over the back and one folded up against his chest, the knee practically in his ear. He turns pages with one hand and with the other, twirls the soft hair on his foot into knots.

Merry sighs and closes his eyes. _Reason Five. I don't know how to start._

How _does_ one start?

Protestations of love? Ugh. Of course Merry loves Pippin, that is the whole point, but it would be odd to say it, and, and, and... off-putting. And pointless. Loving Pippin is like breathing - it just _is_, and life cannot go on without it, but one doesn't go round declaring one's love of breathing all the time. So no, that is not the way.

Get him drunk? Merry snorts at this, then hastily turns it into a snore when he sees (from beneath not-quite-shut lids) Pippin look over at him. It is true that a drunk Pippin will do things a sober Pippin will not, but Merry doesn't want Pippin to do anything with him that couldn't be repeated when he's stone-cold sober. The whole idea is ludicrous, and distasteful. If Merry would never consider getting a lass tipsy to tumble her into bed, no more can he think such a thing of Pippin, with so much more at stake.

Quiz him about whether he likes lads at all? Well, it would at least resolve Reason Three. Although it would also make Reason Four more urgent. Perhaps that is the right way, or a right way. But it is nothing like a complete answer to the question.

Wait for an opportune moment? Merry sighs. He _has_ been waiting. And waiting and waiting and waiting. But he's a coward, or he isn't ready to bring the question (Do you love me? Could you love me _this_ way?) to the point; or both. But it's the closest he can come to a Right Answer for Reason Five.

Merry shifts and looks at Pippin again. There is still that whole other side of the paper, the blank side. The header there is _Five Reasons I_ Should _Kiss Pippin Until Neither of Us Can Breathe Anymore_.

Well. That one is too easy.

_Reason One: His smile._

_Reason Two: His voice._

_Reason Three: His eyes._

_Reason Four: His hands._

_Reason Five: His perfect, inimitable, complete and total Pippin-ness._

Merry can think of these reasons for quite some time, and he does. That done, he sits up and stretches. Pippin is instantly alert. "Are you hungry?" he asks hopefully.

"Yes, I am," Merry answers truthfully. "Shall we see what can be spirited away from the pantry?" Best not to say exactly what he's hungry for, just yet.

"Absolutely." Pippin is on his feet, bouncing in one place, and Merry gazes up at him, a small smile on his face. "What is it?" Pippin asks.

_Have you ever kissed a lad? Have you ever wanted to kiss_ me_? Have you ever thought I might like to kiss_ you_?_ "Not a thing, Pippin. Let's go. I think there might be scones and jam tucked away somewhere."

"Well, what are you waiting for?"

"The opportune moment, my dear cousin."

Pippin grasps Merry's hand and heaves him to his feet. "Merry-my-lad, if you had any sense at all you would realize that the opportune moment is always right now." He slings one arm around Merry's shoulders and they start for the door.

"I will take that under advisement, Pippin-my-lad."


End file.
